


Why Are You Being Nice to Me?

by JaneHudson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Rating is for later chapters, Very Insecure Brienne, if being soft is a crime arrest me now, not a slow burn more like a medium burn, romance and happy endings to come, set in our modern world not a modern westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: Brienne always looks forward to her annual vacation to Venice. A vacation she prefers to take alone, thank you very much. How dare a stranger--even if he is a handsome one--try to intrude? And why cant she bring herself to just tell him to go away?Jaime can't tell if the woman wants him as a traveling companion or not. But, instead of being annoyed by her changeable moods, he is intrigued, especially when she asks what really is the most ridiculous question. He's being nice because he's actually mostly a nice guy, despite what people assume when they first look at him. No other reason. Definitely no other reason.Silvery sunrises, gondolas, and foggy nights straight out of a film *should* serve as a backdrop for love at first sight, but, as anyone who has ever tried to actually navigate the labyrinth that is Venice's streets can attest, nothing there is ever as straightforward as it seems.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 36
Kudos: 87





	1. Serenissima (Brienne POV)

Brienne knew the big smile she had just flashed at the motoscafi driver would be the ugliest and most misshapen one he would have the misfortune to see that day, and she really appreciated that he didn’t wince.

For once, the kindness didn’t surprise her. This was her annual week in Venice, a week when the gods, who apparently were capable of mercy, seemed content to leave her alone for once and spite some other poor bastard instead.

Brienne had never planned to be the type of person who took an annual vacation to Venice in the winter, but one year she had been forced to postpone her usual summer vacation, and had chosen to go to Italy because it was actually affordable in the winter. That first November in Venice was still probably the best week of her life. The city had been so beautiful and comparatively empty, especially at night. One night it had been foggy and it looked like a movie set and it had been the most natural thing in the world to imagine sweet music and soft dancing and handsome, kind men.

She’d been humming softly when she came back to the hotel that night—at two in the morning—and when the late night front desk agent smiled at her as though he really was genuinely happy for her, she’d almost burst into tears of gratitude. She'd booked a trip for the following November the very next morning.

Even now, on a sunny afternoon years later, she could summon the residue of the entirely unanticipated and sweet happiness she had felt that night and on so many November nights since. For one week a year, the parts of herself she kept locked away, the parts of herself she tried to forget, got their moment in the spotlight. She couldn’t wait to see Michel—that kind late night clerk—again. One of her favorite things about her usual visit was him teasing her about staying out late and being his last little sheep to return to the fold.

The silhouettes of Orto’s campanile and Gesuiti’s imposing facade were starting to take more definitive shape. Brienne let out a young girl’s impatient sigh. Not long after, the boat slowed down and they passed some newer, more industrial structures on the edge of the city. Finally, Brienne saw the Scuola della Misericordia, an old 14th century building in a small campo. Brienne almost waved at the Scuola’s two Gothic-style windows, which were the true sign she had passed into proper old Venice, the fantasy land where some magical girdle protected her from cruelty and ridicule.

Now, crumbling, decadent facades were piling on top of one another, and soon they were at a stone bridge, which was a tight fit for the boat since the water was a bit elevated, which wasn’t atypical for this time of year. But, once they were safely under, an even bigger, more childlike smile came to her lips. The Grand Canal!

She could already see her usual hotel, Cà Rezzaro, on the other side. Before she knew it, she was climbing out of the motoscafi and sweet Enrico was taking her bags and Gio, who already had the keys to her usual room, was greeting her like an old friend.

Cà Rezzaro was a mid-range hotel, which meant Brienne could afford the nicest room in the whole place. By continental standards, it was huge, and it was always a tremendous relief to open the door to her home away from home and feel like she had actual space (a feeling that was a bit of a rarity in Venice, honestly). It also had a sitting area with windows that looked out on the Grand Canal itself. Brienne loved to sit in front of those windows and watch all the different types of boats go by. Sometimes the men on the construction or garbage boats would even call out to her—her!—and tourists on the vaporetti always waved.

As she opened the windows, a wave of exhaustion hit her. Michel would have to wait until tomorrow night, alas.

~~

Brienne was mildly irritated when she woke up the next morning because it was just the right time for the breakfast room to be all crowded and cramped. It wasn’t exactly easy for her to escape notice when she walked into the room, but at least the attendant’s face brightened to see her, even if no one else's did.

“Signora Brienne! Is it that time of year already?”

“Signora Caterina, how have you been?” Brienne leaned down to give her a quick hug and to exchange baci, which surely looked ridiculous to everyone else, but Brienne absolutely did not care. Sometimes she wished she could feel this welcome back at home.

Thanks to long experience, Brienne knew the table closest to the balcony door had just a little more space than the rest. Fortunately, it was still unoccupied, so she threw a few things on her plate, grabbed some water, and lumbered over the table as quickly as she could. Brienne liked sitting in this corner because she could feel the sunlight from the big window and the angle made it easy for her to size up the other people at the hotel. The crowd was mostly the same from year to year: there were always lots of French couples, usually a German family or two, a smattering of other assorted Europeans, and at least one group of travelers from Australia or New Zealand.

This year, there was an anomaly in Brienne’s perfect Venetian fantasy world.

A solitary, golden anomaly, sitting at the table by the toaster.

He was also a little too big for these Italian spaces, but he was gracefully outsized instead of…whatever she was. She was first drawn to his strong-looking hands. She could not also avoid noticing that he was wearing a sweater and jeans that fit in ways that suggested the rest of him was equally powerful. He could have sliced the bread and cheese he was eating on his jawline. His hair was so golden and his eyes looked like they might be green, which made Brienne gulp a little bit because green eyes were her favorite. He belonged in a painting from the Accademia. She had honestly never seen anything like him.

Those eyes caught her for a moment, and he flashed a smug little smile. Brienne forced herself to look down. He projected that sense of entitlement that all truly beautiful people share—the utter assurance that the world existed to bend itself to his whims and desperately try and please him so that he would grace it with his exquisite radiance.

People like her—people who were, er, not conventionally attractive were at such risk when they encountered this energy. She had to get away, had to disappear into hidden, solitary, anonymous spaces. Spaces where, she realized with great shame, she might let herself daydream about him. Spaces where she could do so safely, away from his overwhelming energy, which suddenly seemed to threaten to drown her.

When Caterina interrupted this confused jumble of thoughts, Brienne realized she had no idea how much time had passed since the golden man had caught her looking at him. Caterina had a folded piece of paper and a hotel pen and it almost looked like her hand was trembling.

“The signore by the toaster has asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks,” said Brienne, as her face fell. Caterina looked like she was going to say something, but Brienne shook her head, letting her shoulders fall a bit in the process. The sun was still streaming on her, but it no longer felt warm. The outside world had broken through the girdle. She didn't have to open the note to know it would be cruel, even if it didn't seem so on the surface. How dare this asshole intrude on her in her happy place?

Brienne decided to retaliate in the only way she knew how. She made a very big show of placing the note under her saucer as she got up. She refused to let herself look toward the toaster to see if the golden man was reacting in any particular way. She took her time getting another glass of water, making absolutely sure she didn’t even look at him in the process. She tried to radiate “I do not care” energy. She knew she was probably not succeeding, but that didn’t stop her from pretending to ignore the folded piece of paper as long as she could.

She drank some of her coffee.

She drank some of her water.

She checked her phone.

Then—only then—did she deign to unfold the note. It was brief:

“Seems pretty silly for the only two people who seem to be here by themselves not to at least make introductions. I’m Jaime. If we both get bored enough, we should chat.”

Brienne’s first instinct was to dispose of the note so that he’d see just what she thought of his little stunt. Honestly, the “friendly note” trick? Did she look like she was born yesterday? How desperate and stupid did this man think she was? Did he think his looks were enough to cloud her common sense ( _to be fair…_ )?

As she prepared to make her dramatic gesture, she couldn’t help but read the note again. It contained no flattery, not even anything about her eyes. It neither made promises nor any serious demands. And, well, if she was being rational about it all, he probably was bored. He was an attractive single man—her faced flushed as she realized that yes, she actually had looked at his left hand—and he appeared to be well enough off, so Brienne figured he was probably used to places that were, well, livelier than it was around here in the winter.

Brienne forced herself to accept there was nothing in this Jaime’s note that signaled treachery. And when had she started to become a person who didn’t give people chances?

_And you’re in Venice, the most—_

Brienne shook her head to silence the unwanted intrusive voice in her mind. _He’s just bored, that’s all_ , she thought in reply.

She gently tore off the bottom of the piece of paper and wrote, “Thank you for your note, Jaime. My name is Brienne.”

Brienne tried to pass it to Caterina surreptitiously, but, by the way he smiled, she could tell he had seen. She jerked herself up a bit too quickly, causing the cup and the unused setting to shake and the people at the next table to stare. She bumped an irritatingly lithe Portuguese man as she was leaving. She felt his glare, and it did not abate when she mumbled that she was sorry.

She didn’t take a proper deep breath until her door was shut behind her. She went to the sitting area and opened the window again, hoping that the sound of the water would calm her heart, which felt like it was about to hammer its way out of her chest.

It didn’t take long for the rhythms of the canal to soothe her or for tourists on the vaporetto to start waving at her. One or two even took pictures. Voluntarily. Of her!

The sun continued to rise, mingling with the mist in the space between the sky and canal, casting a silver and golden sheen over the pink palaces and shimmering water. Had she really forgotten how breathtaking this city could be? How, in this city of dreams her fantasy of being something other than what the world outside this lagoon forced her to be seemed so real, so attainable—

She gulped when she realized that the terror of seeing the golden man again was simply unable to overcome her desire to do just that.


	2. Serenity Now (Brienne POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is convinced that time spent with Jaime is nothing more than a good walk spoiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed by the number of people who seem to have some interest in this. I hope I don't let you all down. Just as an FYI, I am going to try my hardest to update every 7-10 days. 
> 
> Standard disclaimer: If you hate the show so much that you don't want to be reminded of it at all, it would probably be best to give my work a skip, as I like to work in and remix references to situations and dialogue. It's my way of coping with the disappointment!

The calle was just a bit broader than Brienne’s shoulders, which was just the way she liked it. Moisture from the morning’s acqua alta clung to the pavement and seeped from the crumbling stucco and exposed bricks. Austere, chilly sunlight striped the stone at her feet.

Human-scale noises of conversation and footsteps trickled in from some unseen campo, but this narrow little ribbon of the city was, for the moment, hers alone.

She could feel a year’s worth of anxieties slowly begin to leave her body. This moment was why the golden-haired man had to wait until tomorrow. Nothing in this world could come between her and this first morning stroll in Venice.

The calle opened up and Brienne found herself walking next to a quiet canal that was splintered by the sun. She helped a mother with a stroller and an older couple with their grocery shopper on one of the bridges.

She was happy. It was chilly and sunny and people were going about their lives all around her as though she were normal and not a freakish thing to be stared at, and she was happy.

The calle eventually emptied into a campo, as most larger ones did. Her eyes swept over the glorious, quotidian landscape of Venice. Old men reading their newspapers. People taking coffee at the bar. Shopkeepers chatting outside.

Golden men sitting on benches?

There was not a chance he hadn’t seen her. She never went unseen. Sure enough, he popped off the bench and trotted over to her.

“Brienne!”

Honestly, the cheek to talk to her like they were long-lost friends.

“Jaime, right?”

He nodded. Brienne was about to shake his hand, but she saw that, not only did he have on heavy (and expensive) looking gloves, but that his hands were in the pocket of his (expensive, but lightweight) coat, so she just redoubled her smile. It wasn’t a pretty smile, but she’d learned long ago that she had no chance of appealing to men who looked like this Jaime, so what did it matter?

His smile was as gorgeous as his hair and his eyes. They were green, gods damn it.

“You look kinda cold,” she said, trying her hand at teasing him. “I’m out for a walk, and you can come along if you want, maybe warm up?”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said. “I was lost.”

“Well, then follow me."

He shrugged and they walked west out of the campo. They walked in silence that became increasingly awkward, and Brienne could tell he was unsettled because he started walking in a circle around her as though he were a planet in orbit. It annoyed her. It was wasteful.

“Let’s do something," he said.

“We are. We’re walking.”

“To nowhere!”

“Oh for gods’ sake, there’s a famous church close by. If we go there, will that make you happy?”

“Does it have good art?”

“It’s a church in Italy,” Brienne replied, barely concealing her contempt.

Jaime shrugged again. Brienne estimated he was probably at least a few years older than her, so where did he come off acting like this? Beautiful people could be so infuriating.

With military determination, she marched them toward the church. He kept on orbiting around her. The virtuous part of her wished that this particular falcon would keep on widening his gyre until he was gone, but another part of her wanted him to stay, so she could keep his beauty in sight and the possibility of a grasp.

He interrupted her precious silence again.

“Look, gondolas!”

He sounded like some demented cross between a child and an Instagram fuckboy who was seeing the possibility for thousands of likes.

 _Brienne Tarth, you should be better than this. A pretty face is not worth this bullshit_.

“Let’s take a gondola ride!”

“You cannot be fucking serious.”

“Why not?”

Brienne couldn’t believe he was asking this. What else could he be doing other than mocking her?

“What will people think of you? Riding in a gondola with someone like me.” Her face started to get redder. “I mean—I would know that we’re just strangers passing the time, but, you know, other people would think…most people think people who are in gondolas together are, you know—"

“Couples? Partners? Lovers?”

“Yes,” Brienne said, quite loudly, “yes, those things. And I would hate for anyone to think that you were partnered with a creature like me!”

The gondoliers were staring now. So were some passers-by. Damn this awful man who was making her lose face. That was all an ugly woman like her had, all she could ever hope for. She summoned all her will to keep herself together and lower her voice so she could make her final position clear:

“You can take a ride, but I’m not going to. I’m going this way,” she said, pointing toward a calle that she did not recognize.

“Let’s go then,” he said, unperturbed by his thwarted desire.

The calle became a sotoportego—an enclosed and covered walkway that usually signaled a campo up ahead.

“Taking me somewhere dark and mysterious, are you?” he said, in the comeliest voice—but Brienne reminded herself that he had to be making fun. He was more wicked than most; his cruelty was so intoxicating. “Getting me all alone, where I don’t know how to escape. I see your game, Brienne.”

She ignored how he waggled his eyebrows.

“The campo will be just up ahead.”

It was small and virtually deserted, so Brienne didn’t relent, not even a bit, even though she was vaguely aware that Jaime had slowed down like maybe he wanted to look or take it all in. But he didn’t deserve it. Instead, she motioned for him to go down a really, really narrow calle. Both of them had to walk sideways.

“Have you ever gotten stuck in one of these things?”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Gods no, you sensitive bull of a woman! It’s just—this city’s a bit of a tight squeeze.”

“You don’t really like it here, do you?” said Brienne. The thought of someone not liking Venice made her so mad—it was like someone was insulting her friends.

“Maybe I think it’s all a bit dull and small and even a bit smelly.”

Brienne wanted to smack him. Venice did not smell. At least not at this time of year.

“You know,” she said, “I didn’t come here to be saddled with some stranger who can’t take responsibility for himself. I came here to be alone, as it happens. I come here precisely because this city is silent and I don’t have to listen to what the rest of the world thinks about me. You know what I think? I think you should ask yourself why you can’t take silence. Or, if you aren’t interested in being that self-reflective, I would suggest being kinder to the strangers who extend some kindness to you. Perhaps you’ll be less irritating to the next person who takes pity on you. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Jaime.”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her as though she was a riding or fencing instructor who had just given him a useful critique of his form.

She was angry that he wasn’t smirking. She was angry that he wasn’t chastened. She was just—so many things. She sharply pivoted on her heel and angled herself back into the narrow calle to get away. It was time to start going back this way for lunch anyway.

She took every contrary turn and direction that she could think of in order to put distance between herself and Jaime. Thinking through the logistics helped her calm down, and it wasn’t long before she had resumed her silent stroll and found a familiar path that would take her to the restaurant.

As she was crossing over one of Venice’s many bridges, a bridge that was quite familiar to her, she couldn’t help but marvel at how the morning’s moody weather and lighting—what else could happen when streamers of sunlight filtered through translucent white clouds?—was making everything look different, new, and marvelous.

It was so cliché to stop and take pictures from a bridge (and it was also kind of rude because it blocked people’s way), but there was no one around, so, with great vigor, she dove into her bag to pull out her phone.

Brienne had always had nightmares about dropping something in one of the canals, but her fevered mind had never imagined something like what transpired over the course of the next few seconds. As she was yanking her phone out—with her great and easy power—she caught her pointer finger around the loop of the wristlet she kept in her bag. She tried to stop the momentum of her hand, but it was too late. She heard the wristlet hit the water.

She dashed down the bridge to the edge of the water to see if she could stretch out and reach it— _long arms don’t fail me now!_ —but, even though it was still barely within her grasp, she couldn’t get a good hold of it with her gloves, which she couldn’t take off because of the disgusting water.

Just as she could feel her spirit crumbling, a gloved hand clasped the bridge railing above her head and a familiar voice said, “Give me some room.”

Brienne ducked to allow Jaime, gods only know where had he materialized from, to lean over the edge. He had stripped off his coat and one glove, making it surprisingly easy to see how the muscles in his back and legs were stretching, and to see how long his arm was—

_Oh gods, his bare hand!_

“Don’t touch the water! It’s very unhealthy!”

Damn him, he wasn’t going to listen to her. Brienne winced and turned away as his bare fingers skimmed the surface of the dirty, frigid canal water.

“I’ve got it,” he said. Sure enough, when she opened her eyes again, his glorious arm was arcing up from the canal and back toward the two of them on the pavement, her wristlet in hand.

Brienne’s brain about shut down because he was really handsome and had done something that—although she would not admit it to him—was extremely dashing and this type of thing never, never happened to her, but she tried to keep herself in the moment because they were going to have to do something about his hand.

“That water is really dirty. Katharine Hepburn had an infection for the rest of her life after falling into a canal while she was making a movie. We have to get your hand washed.”

He laughed at her, the awful, beautiful man. He held his hand up higher and knocked on it.

Brienne’s mouth fell open. It was a prosthetic. She suddenly felt irredeemably stupid and oblivious.

“Pretty hard to infect skin that isn’t real,” he said. “But I appreciate your concern. I’m just glad that I was following you—fun game, by the way—so I could apologize for earlier.”

As he stood in front of her with her soaking wristlet in hand, he looked for all the world like a bashful boy trying to give a flower to a girl he liked. Dustings of sunlight caught in his hair and Brienne wished he wasn’t real so she could stare forever. But, unfortunately, he was real, and she was going to have to say something.

“I appear to have misjudged you,” she said. “Thank you for helping me.”

He pressed the wristlet into her hand, and Brienne swore she felt a little tingle.

“Let’s say you partially misjudged me. As for the assistance, think nothing of it. Any true gentleman would do the same for a lady.”

 _A lady._ Brienne was almost glad he’d said it. She knew the feeling of repulsion and sadness that was bubbling up in her quite well. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it was one she knew how to cope with, and that made it better. A world where this Jaime was a nice man was a scary one that she didn’t want to deal with, especially not here.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

“Save your ‘I’m no lady’ protestation. I’m not mocking you. Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t lose your wallet. I’ll be on my way, I guess.”

_Childish little shit…_

“Would you like to come to lunch?”

He smiled the smile of the successful strategist.

“So long as we walk briskly,” she said, “we won’t be late.”

Brienne was vaguely aware that he was following her (rather obediently) through the narrow campo and onto a fondamenta, but she wasn’t situationally aware enough to realize what would be bound to happen if she suddenly stopped. Which she did, because the bridge they needed to cross was closed. Jaime’s hands gently touched her shoulders when he bumped into her, and she could feel his breath. She hoped he didn't feel her pulse quicken. This was so embarrassing on so many levels.

“Putain,” she snarled. “I cannot believe this. Give me a second to think.”

It wasn’t long before Jaime couldn’t help but break the silence.

“You look like you’re some harried ancient general trying to work out how to break a siege. Surely there’s another way.”

“Well, of course there is, but it’s really, really confusing and the restaurant is literally right there. I could hit the building with a rock from where we stand. Plus, if we go the long way, we’ll be late.”

“Oh no,” said Jaime, “not late in Italy. How will we recover? Well, I bet we could jump it.”

Brienne wondered how he had made it this far in life despite taking nothing seriously.

“I think that would be risky.”

“Ah—but ‘risky’ implies you think it could work.”

“We are not doing this,” she snapped.

“No, we’re not. Look!”

Brienne’s face flushed for seemingly the millionth time that morning. A lone gondolier was approaching.

“Does the world always work out for you like this?”

He shrugged.

Brienne tried to make herself smaller, more sheepish, more in distress, as she called out to the gondolier. She thought he would be irritated by her request for a quick lift, but, much to her surprise, he pulled up and nodded.

The canal was so narrow that they could have simply used the gondola as a temporary bridge, but the gondolier insisted on gracefully pushing off the edge and maneuvering so that they ended up right next to the edge on the other side. He even offered Brienne a hand as she stepped out. She pressed a €5 note into his hand as he did so, but he shook his head and returned it to her. She offered it again, and he refused again, stepping back into the boat and pushing away. She stared at the boat as it disappeared around a bend, trying to process what had just happened, but her inner monologue was interrupted by Jaime’s finger—how could his touch feel so electric through a glove?—poking her shoulder.

“You said the restaurant was close?”

“You could just say ‘Brienne, I’m hungry, please help me,’” she replied. “But yes, it’s right here.”

As they walked, Brienne couldn’t help but ask, “I wonder why he wouldn’t take the money?”

“Well,” said Jaime, “I think he was probably just trying to be a helpful and decent guy, but”—and here he threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture—“who could say?”

“You can’t understand,” Brienne said, trying to keep her voice as kind as possible. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know what it was like to be ugly. “No one just helps people like me.”

“Maybe it’s me,” he said, resuming that annoying (or was it now charming? Brienne didn’t know) of circling her as they walked, “maybe I make you a more open person, a warmer person, a person people aren’t afraid to talk to?”

“More like they feel sorry for me when they see that I’m stuck with you.”

Brienne was simultaneously proud of herself for teasing him back and embarrassed by how loudly he laughed.

She was a little nervous about just showing up to the restaurant with an extra person in tow, but the owner, despite his reputation for prickliness, had always been so kind to her, even on her very first visit, and seemed all too happy that, for once, she had company.

It was always her preference to be sat in the corner, where she could draw less attention, but there was no way both she and Jaime could fit, so she found herself seated more or less in the center of the dining room. They were surrounded by well-off American and British couples who were old enough to no longer care if they were impolitely staring. Brienne didn’t know if the stares were worse when she was seated alone, or when Jaime joined her after coming back from the bathroom, where he had removed his prosthetic.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

“I told you people would stare at us.”

“People look at me all the time,” he said. “I imagine it’s the same for you. You have to eventually just say ‘fuck ‘em,’ right? (Brienne still didn’t know if his insouciance made her want to strangle him or kiss him.) So, what do you recommend?”

She was about to reply, but he didn’t even give her a chance.

“Oh, this mixed seafood antipasto looks good.”

“That’s only for tw—uh, yeah, yeah, sure, we can try that.” Brienne felt her face get red and she didn’t like how Jaime was looking at her. His green eyes (ugh, how many times had she asked herself today how much she loved green eyes?) were neither mocking nor pitying her and she didn’t know what to do.

With a hand that was less sure than she would have liked, she decided to pour them both some wine.

The mixed seafood platter was something of a house specialty, and Brienne was very excited to finally try it. She had realized long ago that all she would have had to do was ask and they would have a half-sized portion just for her, but she had never been able to make herself ask. Not being able to have the platter was her punishment for not being worthy enough of ever having someone want to go to dinner with her.

_And now I’m good enough…maybe?_

Jaime turned out to be a surprisingly mannered dining companion. He was careful to keep the conversation focused on her, and heaped praise on her choice of restaurant and the quality of the dish (it was so fresh, so sweet, so saline—like a kiss could be, perhaps).

A couple of hours and three courses of food and wine later, Brienne couldn’t help but blurt out the question that had been on her mind since he’d fished her wristlet out of the canal.

“Why are you being nice to me?” said Brienne in a higher, laughing voice that almost didn’t sound like her own.

When he didn’t immediately respond, the old, familiar—perhaps even comforting, in its own sick way—wave of humiliation washed over her.


	3. Get in Loser, We're Going Shopping (Jaime POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime had to entertain himself somehow, didn't he? So why not spend money?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my guilt at not having updated has finally started to outweigh my guilt about writing something set in a place that has not exactly been having an easy time of it IRL. 
> 
> This chapter features privileged attitudes toward consumption and a basic middle-class woman's attempt to put herself in the head of a genuinely wealthy person, so I'm sure I've missed the mark in respects. I only mean for it to be escapism, but I can also understand that it might bother some people, especially now, so I feel like I need to warn for it, as it were.
> 
> Also, I know memento mori jewelry isn't exactly equal to mourning jewelry, but let's roll with it, OK? Hahahaha.
> 
> To those who have subscribed/bookmarked this, thank you for your patience.

_Why are you being nice to me?_

Jaime laid in bed staring at the Murano glass chandelier. It was an OK example of its type; he’d seen better.

_Why are you being nice to me?_

What the fuck kind of question was that? What a bullish woman.

Had he even been nice? As far as he could tell, he’d been only civilized, what his old mentor Arthur Dayne used to call housebroken.

Sure, the wallet thing had been smooth, even for him, but fucking hell, he was already bored and he needed something to do.

The chandelier’s lights seemed to titter at him: You could just leave.

_But the cancellation fees…_

Jaime scrunched his face. Cancellation fees? Really?

He was forced to admit he was bullshitting himself. Anyway, he couldn’t leave before he got Myrcella the present he’d promised.

*

The next morning, his companion’s face fell a little when he joined her at breakfast. He knew he should be insulted, but he was just amused. And drawn in.

“Could I trouble you for more help today? My, uhm, niece—”

Her eyes lit up at that more than he guessed they would.

“Oh, how old is she?”

“About 14,” Jaime replied, “and she’s asked me to buy her some…which one has the lace?”

Jaime hadn’t known the woman that long, but he’d already learned that she got this odd little smile on her face whenever any opportunity to show off what she knew about Venice presented itself.

“Burano’s got the lace. My friends Sansa and Margaery have been happiest with the pieces from Danilia Burano, but there are other respectable shops, of course. To get there, you first have to get to Fondamenta Nove. The most efficient way to do that from here is generally to use the #1 vaporetto like a traghetto from San Stae to Cà d’Oro and then you can cut across the Strada Nova quickly enough. But we’ll have to time it right, as Burano is only accessible on the #9 vaporetto, which generally departs at…”

Jaime let her go on. It was making her happy. He nodded occasionally. He was, after all, housebroken.

He offered to give her thirty minutes to get her things together after breakfast, but she was ready in ten. She wore plain slacks and a button-front blouse, like yesterday, but she’d added a velvet scarf of rose and silver. Jaime, who had been forced to sit through a lot of discussions about maintaining the upholstery in the family home, recognized it was good velvet, which wasn’t easy to find these days.

“That’s a lovely scarf,” he said. “It really suits you well.”

She blushed a little, almost matching the scarf in a way that, well—it might not be becoming, but it had some sort of charm that Jaime couldn’t quite articulate.

When they got to the lobby, he placed his keys on the counter and turned right toward the hotel’s private dock. She had done the same, but turned left toward the door.

He reached out and caught her sleeve. She shuddered like she’d been shocked.

“Jaime, the vaporetto is—”

“Woman…”

He meant to finish, but he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the lobby’s old mirror. He’d been surprised by his facial expression. It wasn’t exactly fond, but it was closer to fond that he felt it should be. The skin around his eyes was crinkling.

“Yes?”

He sighed. “We’re taking a water taxi to Burano,” he said. “Come on.”

“Oh.”

She chatted a bit with the taxi driver in Italian, and seemed to know what she was doing when they alighted next to a church with a tower that put the one in Pisa to shame.

“This is the main piazza,” she said. “Danilia is just over this way.”

It would have been difficult to miss: displays with all manner of tablecloths and handkerchiefs and lace shawls were set up outside the door.  
  
The two of them were also difficult to miss as they approached. The lady who had been setting up the display, a slight, dark-haired creature, positively beamed at them. Jaime was about to whisper something about surprisingly warm service, but, before he could, she greeted them in a way that suggested his large, ungainly…untraditionally feminine shopping guide was—a regular at this place that sold delicate, lacy things?

Nearly two hours later, Jaime was at the cash register, finalizing the process of becoming steward of a lace camisole and a lace cardigan and a stole that the saleswoman insisted would be perfect for Myrcella’s fancy parties.

He looked around and, for a moment, became worried that he’d been abandoned.

“Woman, where are you?”

She materialized from some hidden corner of the shop with more grace that her size suggested. “I’m right here, for pity’s sake.” She had a number of handkerchiefs and stoles. He saw the letters B, S, and M on the handkerchiefs.

“No D, my lady?”

She quirked an eyebrow. His joke had gone over her head, apparently.

“My friends are named Sansa and Margaery. I—I don’t have a friend with a name that begins with D?”

“Of course—you said earlier, forgive me,” he replied, and, although he wasn’t sure, he might have felt that crinkling around his eyes again.

*

The water taxi dropped them off near the Rialto Bridge. Apparently there was somehow a non-shitty place to eat lunch around here. Jaime was a little suspicious of all the cheesy-looking al fresco setups lining the canal, but the restaurant she’d picked the day before was beyond reproach so he’d have to trust her. He began to walk toward the first of these restaurants, but she stopped him by taking his sleeve in a rather firm grip. An impressively firm grip.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“Lunch?”

She rolled her eyes. “Really? What kind of food do you think places like that serve? Come on!”

She whisked him off under one of the covered arcades, which was lined with a bunch of shops, some of which looked kind of interesting, but he was too intimidated to ask her to stop. They emerged into a calle, and, after a couple of quick turns that left him feeling disoriented, they were in front of a crowded bar. Jaime had read about these. Cicchetti bars. Like tapas, but apparently not?

It was a tight fit once they got in the door.

“Do you have any allergies?” she asked.

“No?”

“Go stand at those places the corner and look handsome then.” Jaime was amused by how her eyes slightly bugged and she blushed, as though she’d accidentally said something aloud that she’d only meant to think.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will try to steal me away?”

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and got in line.

*

“I have to hand it to you,” he said, before licking a bit of sour-tasting sauce off his finger. “That was good. You’re 2/2 when it comes to food. I’m grateful.”

She nodded.

“So, what now?” Jaime asked. “I made an appointment near Piazza San Marco that’s in about an hour, but surely that leaves time for one more adventure. You pick.”

“Actually,” she said, “there is somewhere I’d like to go. And it’s on the way to San Marco, in a manner of speaking, anyway.”

Apparently the woman really loved her velvet. Jaime figured he must have watched her try on every scarf at Infortunio before she settled on a blue and gold one. He’d suggested that she try it with the long blue dress they had on display, but she’d just laughed at him.

When he saw her going over to look at the cushions, he realized he’d have to intervene, or else they’d be late.

“Come on, woman,” he said, gently tapping her shoulder with his thumb, “places to be, places to be.”

She just looked at him funny. She must have heard the strange softness in his voice too.

It wasn’t long before they were nearly to the Piazza. Jaime began looking up to see the names of the shops. It didn’t take long until he saw the place he was looking for, nestled near a much louder Chanel boutique. As Jaime buzzed the door, he could see her face, looming over his shoulder, in the reflection of the window. Her mouth was slightly agape. She did know this place. Good.

Jaime waited a moment for the soft click and pushed it open. Signore Ercole was a little balder and his beard a bit whiter than in the pictures that accompanied his glowing profiles in _Vogue_.

“Signore Lannister. Signora Lannister.”

“S-sir, I’m just an acquaintance of Mr. Lannister.”

Jaime had to stifle a chuckle at Cocatmorto’s surprise over just how high such a large woman's voice could get.

“She’s my guide.”

Cocatmorto clearly didn’t know how to respond to that, so he turned back to her.

“How shall I call you then, Signora?”

“Brienne. Brienne Tarth.”

“Piacere, Signora Tarth.”

“Piacere, Signore Cocatmorto.” Jaime got the sense she wanted to say something else but was too embarrassed.

“Signore Lannister, you said you wished for a _memento mori_ in honor of your mother. And you, Signora Tarth?”

“Oh—”

“I offered to gift her something specific, but she told me she wanted to pick something based on sheer caprice. That’s why we’re such good friends you see, her love of spontaneity.”

Gods, the woman was as red as the rubies that surrounded him. Jaime really did treasure the lesser gentry, or the upper middle class, or whatever they were calling themselves now. They never ceased to amuse. Poor thing, she was trapped somewhere between the shame of allowing a virtual stranger to drop five figures on them and the greater shame of talking about money, which was an acknowledgement that one wasn’t rich enough to not have to talk about money.

Another glance in a stray mirror revealed that strange look from back at the hotel had returned to his face. For a moment, Jaime entertained the notion that it never left, but he pushed that absurd notion from his mind.

“Signore, I would also like a _memento mori_.”

He shared a quick glance with the jeweler. This was not what either man had expected.

“I do not wish to pry,” said Cocatmorto, “but if there are further details, it may help me make some suggestions.”

“Two sisters, younger. A brother—he was older. My mother.”

Jaime found himself struck not by pity, but by admiration. He would never have guessed from the way she carried herself.

Cocatmorto invited them to look around and excused himself to retrieve a few other pieces.

Jaime slid up close to her. “I know the words of a virtual stranger, delivered ages after the fact, won’t mean much, but I am sincerely sorry about your family.”

She nodded. “I am sorry about your mother. What do you think of the one with the flower?”

“It’s a contender, but I’m also surprisingly drawn to those,” he said, indicating a set of Byzantine-style pieces that featured a woman’s head carved in high relief against a background of blue and red.

Cocatmorto gently coughed to let them know he’d returned. He had about 10 new pieces with him.

The shadows lengthened outside as they both deliberated. In the end, Jaime settled on a piece that had been hiding in the corner of one of the window displays: a coffin brooch of gold with a top of red glass that concealed a single blood-bloom.

“How are you—have you found something you like?” Jaime asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to two,” she replied. In one hand, she held one of the necklaces from the central window display—a necklace made of a large-link chain with a substantial pendant representing the jeweler’s unique take on the Many-Faced God. In the other she held a massive—truly massive—cuff bracelet that was solid silver and had four inlaid skulls, each fashioned from a different gemstone. To top it off, each skull had a crown of smoked and tarnished gold.

That cuff was fucking made for her. What other woman had the presence and stature to carry it off? She had the taste to know this. She also surely knew it was far more expensive than the necklace. He hoped she realized he didn’t give a shit. He tried to will his thoughts toward her: _You give what you can, I give what I can, just take the cuff—just take it. Please._

“I think they are both a fine choice,” said Cocatmorto.

She looked to Jaime.

“I couldn’t—it’s so personal.”

She nodded slowly. “The cuff. It—it seems right.”

Jaime had never been happier to spend so much money on someone he’d known for about 48 hours.

*

After the door clicked shut behind them, they stood there for a moment.

“Thank you seems insufficient,” she said.

“You’re going to walk over lesser women with that thing on. Just let me see it, that’s all I ask.”

For some reason he was too nervous to see her reaction what he’d just said, so he quickly darted out into the pedestrian traffic and began wandering up the calle that ran parallel to the back of the piazza. The shadows were even longer now, but they’d spent a long time in Cocatmorto. He wasn’t really interested in buying anything else—what did it matter to buy Fendi or Zegna in Venice or Paris?—but the fresh air felt good.

Well, for a few minutes, at least. He soon found himself running his hands up his arms.

He could hear her laughing behind him.

“The sun sets really early this time of year. If the wind picks up any more, we’re both going to be cold. Probably best to retreat.”

“Lead on,” he said.

She did, but she seemed somewhat stiff and uncomfortable.

“Are you OK?”

The words had just popped out of his mouth, practically unbidden.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied. “It’s just—well, I don’t know if I’m going mad, but I feel like people are looking at me.” She shook her head a little bit before continuing. “I mean, it’s not that—people look at me all the time, of course, but not like this. They seem almost envious.”

“Well,” said Jaime, shaking his share of their bags, “if I wasn’t an arrogant, snobbish ass, I’d say that they’re jealous over the fact that we’ve clearly dropped a shitload of money today. But, since I am an arrogant, snobbish ass, I’m going to say that this rabble isn’t clued in enough to know how much we’ve spent, so they’re jealous of you because of your self-assurance and, well, let’s be honest, your exceptionally good-looking companion. Let’s be honest, most people are, to paraphrase the philosopher Nietzsche, ressentiment _-_ ridden fucks.”

(He’d made Tyrion explain what that meant after he’d heard his little brother use the term to refer to Sybell Spicer-Westerling, an unpleasant client of their father.)

She didn’t quite laugh, but she did chuckle a little as she led them under the arcade at the back of Piazza San Marco. Something about the sound of her chuckle brought together the scattered thoughts, feelings and impressions that had been nipping at Jaime all day with sudden violence.

She should be ressentiment ridden. She should absolutely stink of bitterness. He should be able to feel it rolling offer her, like he felt it rolling off so many others who were, not to put too fine a point on it, poorer, plainer, and less fortunate than he was. He’d never given a fuck about those people because they didn’t really give a damn about his shortcomings. They called him a privileged jackass to cover their shame, their jealous loathing, their own burning and thwarted desire to be a privileged jackass too. 

But not this woman! She was guileless. Every eyeroll, every quirked eyebrow, every attempt to call him out on his nonsense—she did them because she thought—holy shit—she thought...no, she _trusted_ he could do better.

Jaime felt light-headed and almost walked into one of the arcade columns. His companion—his completely singular companion—turned around and scowled at him.

As he trotted behind her, the sun’s last dying rays splayed over the pavement, like the echoing shadow of fireworks. People streamed past him, wearing fake Murano glass and sailors caps and all manner of tourist tat. The mosaics on the Basilica gleamed. People fed pigeons until they were shooed off by the stewards. The orchestra closest to them was playing “Con te partiro.” It was one of the most _common_ fucking sights he’d ever laid eyes on, and it still managed to be absolutely magnificent.

She’d started slowing down when they got close to the orchestra, taking it all in with those big, blue, romantic’s eyes. Her gaze always returned to the people who were dancing. She was particularly focused on an older couple, dressed in clothes that were surely a part of some American department store plot to degrade the good name of a Cruise Collection. He could tell she thought it was sweet.

Jaime was overcome by an almost irresistible desire to start twirling _her_ around to the music.

The only thing that stayed his hand was the certain knowledge that, if he tried, she would kick his ass. Then again, that was, as he was starting to realize, part of the fun of it all.

He burst out laughing. She looked at him with hurt in her eyes. It annoyed Jaime. She could be better than that. And yet—he couldn’t snap at her, could he?

 _Why not…?_ said a voice in his head.

“Never mind,” he mumbled.

“…Jaime?”

“I am just laughing at myself, woman.”

She nodded and squeaked out a tiny, breathy, “OK.”

She was such a skittish thing, his giant Brienne.


End file.
